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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300199">There Will Be Mountains You Won't Move</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyonthethrone/pseuds/prettyonthethrone'>prettyonthethrone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>American Horror Story: Coven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, i watched pieces of a woman a few weeks ago and i have not been the same since, this is sort of sad i'm sorry, tw: death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:55:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300199</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyonthethrone/pseuds/prettyonthethrone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cordelia and Misty deal with an unbearable loss.</p><p>Title is from Godspeed by Frank Ocean.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Misty Day/Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>There Will Be Mountains You Won't Move</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>october 1</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“October first, that’s a good birthday.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty moves to kneel, knees squishing against the hardwood floors of their kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s get you out of these,” she says, and uses two hands to begin slowly peeling Cordelia’s yoga pants and underwear down her legs. “Step out,” she instructs, and Cordelia obeys, steadying herself on Misty’s shoulders so she can lift one foot up. Misty pulls the fabric over and off, and tosses the pants into a corner of the room.</p><p> </p><p>She rises to grab a dish rag from the drawer and, crouching down again, she wipes up the water between her wife’s feet.</p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” She asks, when she’s discarded the rag and seen Cordelia’s nervous expression. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Cordelia nods. “Can you call Catherine?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m on it.”</p><p> </p><p>While Misty searches for her cell phone, Cordelia focuses on her breath. She palms her belly through the fabric of her soft, white tunic, and rubs her hands in circles. She’s not sure who she’s trying to soothe more — herself or her unborn child — but it’s working to calm her own heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>“Catherine?” She hears Misty say into her phone from across the kitchen. “Hey, it’s Misty. Cordelia’s water just broke.” Misty pauses to hear the woman on the other line. “No big contractions yet, no. Just small ones.” Another pause, and then, “Okay, great. We’ll see you soon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is she coming?” Cordelia asks, when her wife has ended the call.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s coming. She’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia nods. She settles her hands on the edge of the kitchen counter, and bends over to push against it.</p><p> </p><p>“How’s it feeling, babe?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m okay. I just — it’s just my lower back. Cramps.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty watches as her wife practices the breathing techniques they’d learned about in their classes. In through her nose, out through her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she says. “Can I help?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so.” Cordelia stands upright again. “Why October first?” She places both palms on her lower back, fingers facing down, and leans into her own hands. </p><p> </p><p>“Huh?” Misty asks, opening a cabinet to fetch a glass. </p><p> </p><p>“You said October first is a good birthday.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty chuckles, and fills the glass with filtered water before setting it down for Cordelia.</p><p> </p><p>“I like October. It’s the prettiest time of the year, and it’s the month I met you in. I like that our son will be an October baby.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia smiles at this, but a second later, her stomach tenses and she squeezes her eyes shut. She lets out a long groan, and moves back to the position she’d been in before, bracing her hands against the counter. </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit,” Misty mutters, inaudibly under the sound of Cordelia’s sound. </p><p> </p><p>When it passes, Cordelia’s face is flushed and she’s breathing deeper. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, that one was bigger,” Misty says, and Cordelia nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Catherine’s coming?”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s on her way,” Misty promises. “Why don’t you come and sit, honey?” Misty walks with her to the living room area, where the exercise ball Cordelia has used during pregnancy is resting. “Want to try the ball? Maybe that’d help with the cramps.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want the ball,” Cordelia says in a breath. With Misty’s help, she sits down on the couch, instead. “I’m nauseous.”</p><p> </p><p>She leans back, but leans forward again when she realizes that her discomfort level is not changing.</p><p> </p><p>Misty kneels in front of her and takes both of Cordelia’s hands in hers. She squeezes them gently. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, look at me,” she says, keeping her voice level. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia opens her eyes, still breathing heavily. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing great, okay?” Misty moves one hand to push a stray piece of blonde hair behind Cordelia’s ear. “This is all going to be over before you know it, and then our son will be here.” </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia nods, and swallows the knot of nausea in her throat. </p><p> </p><p>“Henry,” she says, once she feels she can speak again. </p><p> </p><p>Misty’s mouth splits into a grin. “Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Cordelia smiles, and Misty leans in to kiss her. “It’s still my favorite. He feels like Henry.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty laughs, and moves her hands out of Cordelia’s to feel her belly. She places a series of kisses on the rounded bump. “You hear that, Henry Day? You’ve got to come out and see us, now. Don’t torture your mama for much longer. I promise, you’ll love it out here—”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia’s belly moves from the effort of Henry’s sudden kicking, and she lets out a strangled breath and arches her back. </p><p> </p><p>“I think he heard you, loud and clear,” Cordelia groans, and Misty would feel bad for eliciting anything that caused her wife’s discomfort if she weren’t so excited. </p><p> </p><p>The doorbell rings just as another contraction begins, and Misty presses a kiss to Cordelia’s warm forehead before leaving to go answer the door. </p><p> </p><p>She returns with Catherine, who makes herself comfortable next to Cordelia on the couch.</p><p> </p><p>“How are we doing, Cordelia?” She asks, and Misty thinks, as she often does, that this woman was truly made to do her job, because she’s never heard a more soothing voice in her life.</p><p> </p><p>“Poorly,” Cordelia answers dryly.</p><p> </p><p>Catherine smiles. “That’s alright. Tell me what you feel.”</p><p> </p><p>While Cordelia details her laundry list of complaints, Misty goes to the kitchen to get the glass of water they’d left on the counter. She returns to offer it to Cordelia, who takes a single sip before handing it back. Misty moves to kneel again at Cordelia’s feet, and rubs soothing circles on her thighs. </p><p> </p><p>When another contraction rips its way through Cordelia’s body, she surges forward to grip Misty’s shoulders. Misty catches her, and she holds onto Cordelia’s arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck </em>,” Cordelia cries. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing great, honey,” Misty says, knowing full well how akin she sounds to a broken record. “Keep breathing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I need to lie down.” Cordelia’s voice is pained as she begins scooting off of the couch. Misty and Catherine help her get into a comfortable position on the floor, and Misty sits behind her to help prop her up. </p><p> </p><p>“About how far are they apart?” Catherine asks. </p><p> </p><p>Misty looks at her watch. “The last one was less than four minutes ago, just when you got here.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, so we’re really moving.” Catherine reaches for her bag. “Cordelia, I want to check the baby’s heartbeat, okay?” While she reaches inside her bag for the bottle of gel and her mobile ultrasound tool, she enlists Misty’s help in pulling Cordelia’s tunic up over her belly.</p><p> </p><p>“This will be cold,” Catherine reminds her before slathering the gel on Cordelia’s stomach. She moves the wand around, and the audio of the child’s heartbeat comes through her device instantly. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a sound they’d become intimately familiar with, but Cordelia is positive she’s never been so happy to hear it as she is now. It’s almost enough to make her forget how much pain she’s currently in. She reaches a hand blindly up for Misty, who finds it with her own, and she angles her head up to kiss her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Cordelia says, squeezing Misty’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, too.” Misty laughs. “That’s our boy! That’s our Henry.”</p><p> </p><p>Catherine wipes Cordelia’s belly clean and pulls a pair of latex gloves out of her bag. “I’m going to check your dilation, now,” she says, pulling the gloves over her hands. “Spread a little wider for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia does, and Catherine continues to narrate her movement as she moves her fingers. </p><p> </p><p>Misty feels her hand being squeezed tighter than she had before, as Cordelia grimaces with the discomfort. </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Catherine says apologetically. “But, this is good. You’re about six or seven inches dilated. The baby is low.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s coming soon?” Cordelia asks.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s coming soon.” Catherine removes her hand and takes her gloves off. While she goes to the kitchen to dispose of them, Cordelia experiences another contraction. </p><p> </p><p>She writhes on the floor, and Misty moves a hand to support her back. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia is making noises that Misty has never heard before, and it’s enough to make her nauseous, too. She wants to do something, or, at the least, complain to Catherine about what they can do. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing great, honey,” she says instead, and she notices her voice sounds less confident, now. Cordelia has a death grip on one of Misty’s hands, and Misty swallows her fear. “You can do this, Cordelia. Breathe through it, baby.”</p><p> </p><p>When the worst of it is over, Catherine is kneeling in front of them. “I think it’s time to move to the bed, okay? Cordelia, let us help you up.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty sits forward, moving Cordelia with her, and Catherine helps to support her front. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Cordelia groans, once she’s standing again. She leans back into Misty, and Misty has to tongue Cordelia’s hair out of her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Misty encourages. “Let’s walk. Bedroom.” </p><p> </p><p>While Misty takes step by step with her wife down the hallway, Catherine moves ahead to get the towels and temporary bedding set up in the master bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>They get Cordelia settled on the bed, and Misty perches next to her to hold her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s happening,” Misty says, unable to stop smiling. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia, despite her pain, offers a tired smile back. “It’s happening.”</p><p> </p><p>And, it was. A home birth, just as they planned. Their child, born in the same bedroom they’d dreamed of him in. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia has another contraction, her most painful one yet, and she throws her neck back with her scream.</p><p> </p><p>She leaves her head on the pillows behind her, and tears form in her eyes. When she lifts her head, she looks at Catherine.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t do this.”</p><p> </p><p>“You already are, Cordelia. You’re already doing it.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty thumbs a few tears from Cordelia’s cheek, and Cordelia leans into her touch, craning her neck so that their foreheads press against each other. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, honey,” Misty says, and, to her relief, her voice is strong. “You can do it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia has too many tears for Misty to brush away, now, so she kisses her face instead.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you. You can do this. For Henry.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia nods, and, less than a minute later, her eyes go wide as she looks at Catherine. “I need to push.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Catherine agrees. “Let me check the baby’s heartbeat, and we can try another push with the next contraction.”</p><p> </p><p>Catherine readies Cordelia’s belly with the gel again, and when she wands over the bump, she receives only mild feedback from the audio device. </p><p> </p><p>Misty and Cordelia both detect the expression on Catherine’s face, and Cordelia speaks immediately.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“His heartbeat has slowed. I’m going to have you move positions, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“What does that mean?” Misty asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Misty, I want you to call 911, just to be safe,” Catherine says, her voice still calm despite its urgency. “Tell them we have a home birth, and the baby is in distress.”</p><p> </p><p>Catherine speaks before either of them can, and Misty nearly leaps off of the bed to retrieve her phone. </p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia, I want you to move on your side, or onto your hands and knees. Whichever is easier.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is he okay?” Cordelia asks, rolling slowly onto her side. She feels how maniacal her voice sounds, and she almost doesn’t recognize it.</p><p> </p><p>“We just need to get him out. On the next contraction, I want you to push with everything you’ve got.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Misty?” Cordelia asks, just in time for Misty to return to the room. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re coming,” Misty says aloud, and resumes her position at Cordelia’s side. </p><p> </p><p>The next contraction arrives, and Cordelia does as she’s been told.</p><p> </p><p>She’s squeezing Misty’s hand impossibly tight, and Misty hopes to God that this push is the one that results in Henry’s arrival.</p><p> </p><p>When it doesn’t, Catherine moves to check his heartbeat again.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s still not very strong,” she says, and sets the ultrasound device back down. “One more push, Cordelia.”</p><p> </p><p>“Misty,” Cordelia cries.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, baby. I know.” Misty kisses her forehead. “You can do this. You’re doing so well. One more push.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia groans, terribly loudly, and Misty is torn between looking at how beautiful Cordelia is, face bright pink, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, face exhausted in concentration, and looking down to see between her legs, where their son is entering the world. </p><p> </p><p>Catherine catches him gracefully, and Misty and Cordelia’s entire world stops at the absence of any noise.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Catherine is moving quickly, checking the newborn’s vitals and rubbing his belly in the hopes of receiving movement. </p><p> </p><p>The wailing of the ambulance sirens outside the townhome is the last thing Cordelia remembers. </p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>september 23</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“It’s quiet in here.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty moves from where she’s leaning against the door frame to enter the room. </p><p> </p><p>“Give it a few days,” she says, chuckling. “We’ll be begging for this silence.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia hums. Misty thinks she looks like her dream come true, sitting in the soft white rocking chair in the corner of the room, hands splayed out over a very rounded belly. </p><p> </p><p>“Come, sit,” Cordelia says, and her face lights up. “He’s moving.”</p><p> </p><p>Lifting Cordelia’s legs, Misty sits on the ottoman and places her wife’s feet in her lap. Cordelia pulls her shirt up, bunching the fabric just under her breasts, and places Misty’s ringed hands in the right spots on her belly. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi, sweet boy,” Misty coos. She rubs gentle circles on Cordelia’s stomach. “Are you ready to come out and see us? We sure are ready to meet you.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty feels the pressure against her hands almost immediately, as the child inside her wife’s belly begins to push his limbs in response to her voice.</p><p> </p><p>Misty laughs. “We’ve got your room all ready. Yes, we do. We’ve got your books, and your clothes, and your blankets.”</p><p> </p><p>The movement is quicker, now, more fervent, and Cordelia scoffs in mock disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“How come I can talk to him all day long and I might get some rolling around, but you say three sentences and he’s suddenly a firecracker?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty moves her hands aside so that she can place a series of kisses on Cordelia’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe he already knows I’m not the disciplinarian here,” she answers. “When he’s with you, he only gets things like salads and salmon.” She makes a face, and Cordelia giggles. “But, when Mama’s around, he gets homemade milkshakes and french fries.”</p><p> </p><p>“Homemade milkshakes that have ruined the ass I once worked so hard for,” Cordelia says.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I don’t call the shots.” Misty tilts her head down to Cordelia’s belly and begins massaging again. “If my baby boy wants a milkshake, that’s what he’s getting. Isn’t that right, sweet pea?”</p><p> </p><p>The baby kicks more, now, and both women dissolve into laughter. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, that’s right,” Misty says. “And, besides.” She looks up at Cordelia now, and leans in to kiss her lips. “I love the way your ass looks.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty kisses her again, and then presses more kisses to the underside of Cordelia’s jaw, and then her neck. </p><p> </p><p>“I love your ass,” she says between kisses, “and your boobs.” She moves her hands up to cradle Cordelia’s breasts, which had been tender and swollen with milk for a week now, and Cordelia sighs into her mouth. “And your belly, and your hips.”</p><p> </p><p>“Misty,” Cordelia says, after another kiss, “take me to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>october 16</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty sits down on the edge of their bed. She reaches a hand out to gently rub Cordelia’s arm from where it lays atop the duvet. She’s on her side, curled into the fetal position, and she looks so peaceful while she sleeps that Misty almost leaves her be. </p><p> </p><p>Almost.</p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia, honey,” she tries again, keeping her voice soft.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia stirs, now, and blinks open her eyes. Misty watches as, in under two seconds, Cordelia remembers where she is, remembers everything. Her face falls back into the hollow state that it’s been in for the last two weeks. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m here,” Misty says, but Cordelia doesn’t look at her. “Can we go for a walk?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty tuts. “I know you don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why ask?”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia’s voice is sharper, now, and it’s made worse by the fact that she won’t make eye contact. Misty doesn’t react.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I want you to come on a walk, even if you don’t want to,” Misty says simply.</p><p> </p><p>“Not today, Misty.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty swallows. “Will you look at me, please?”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia complies, after a few seconds, adjusting her head on the pillow slightly so she can look at Misty.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m worried about you. You’ve hardly left this bed in two weeks.” Misty places a palm gingerly on Cordelia’s face. “I know this is hard. It’s the hardest, worst thing in the world. But you can’t lay in bed all day like this for much longer. It’s not helping.”</p><p> </p><p>“There is nothing that is going to help me,” Cordelia says simply. “Nothing. Not a walk. Not the soup you made. Not the flowers from Coco. Nothing. I think you should try to understand that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia—”</p><p> </p><p>“I said no.” </p><p> </p><p>She rotates her head so that her cheek presses against the pillow again.</p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Yu said—”</p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Yu said I need to rest. And that’s what I’m doing. But I can’t rest if you keep talking.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty shuffles her tongue in her mouth in frustration. She steels herself with a long breath, and then gives Cordelia’s arm a soft squeeze before rising from the bed and leaving the room. </p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>october 20</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you both very much for coming in.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty crosses her legs in the armchair she’s sitting in and folds her hands together. To say she’s nervous would be an understatement not worth making.</p><p> </p><p>She looks to her right, where Cordelia sits in the identical chair next to her. Her hair is washed, dried, and perfectly fixed. She’s dressed more casually than what she’d wear to work, but even Cordelia’s version of casual is nicer than most people’s formal wear. Her jewelry is simple, her hands bare save for the oval diamond on her ring finger. </p><p> </p><p>The illusion of put-togetherness stops at her physical appearance, though, Misty thinks. Cordelia has sadness seeping out of her. Misty wonders if Dr. Yu had noticed it when they’d entered the room, the way the entire energy in the space had shifted.</p><p> </p><p>How far they had come from the first time they’d sat in this very office. </p><p> </p><p>It was over a year ago that they’d made an appointment with Dr. April Yu, a highly recommended obstetrician. After discussing Misty and Cordelia’s desire to conceive a child and putting a plan in place to try, Dr. Yu had referred them to a top fertility specialist to begin the process. </p><p> </p><p>They had left her office grinning from ear to ear, absolutely giddy of the idea of starting their family. Cordelia, in particular, knew that the road ahead would almost certainly be difficult. She’d been told earlier in her life that conceiving may be difficult, if not outright impossible, for her. Dr. Yu, however, had been supportive of her dream to carry the couple’s child. </p><p> </p><p>“‘<em> Probably not’ doesn’t mean it’s impossible </em> ,” she had said. “ <em> Give it a try, and if we don’t see success after a time period you’re comfortable with, we can explore other options. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Thousands of dollars, months of fertility shots, and just three unsuccessful takes later, Cordelia received a positive pregnancy test. </p><p> </p><p>The women had returned to Dr. Yu, over the moon with excitement, and were overjoyed at every appointment that followed.</p><p> </p><p>Misty isn’t sure of much, but she’s positive that they’ll never be that kind of happy — the naive, hopeful kind of happiness that only someone who hasn’t experienced this grief can feel — ever again. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to start off by saying how sorry I am for your loss,” Dr. Yu says. “I know you are going through an unimaginable grief right now, and I appreciate you being here to meet with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Misty says. Cordelia stares blankly at the woman, and Dr. Yu continues.</p><p> </p><p>“I know that you’re seeking answers. The truth is that what happened to you and your son, happens sometimes. There is so much that we know about childbirth and infancy, and a fair amount that we don’t. It is possible that he had a respiratory condition that was unidentifiable during the pregnancy, and that the process of labor put a stress on him that he couldn’t overcome. But there are also other possibilities.” </p><p> </p><p>“He was healthy,” Cordelia says. “Every check-up, every ultrasound — he was perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Dr. Yu says, “that’s true. And that’s why — and I’m so sorry to have to say this — we just don’t have an answer at this time.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have an answer?” Cordelia says, and as soon as the words leave her mouth, Misty knows they’re on the precipice of something. Cordelia’s words aren’t just sharp; they’re poised. She’s ready for a fight. </p><p> </p><p>“We have a dozen possibilities,” Dr. Yu answers. “I know that that’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“You know? You’ve been saying <em> you know </em> quite a few times since we sat down here. What I haven’t yet heard you say <em> you know </em> is why, one second, my son’s heartbeat was perfect and strong, and, within ten minutes, it was gone. And so was he.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia is crying, now, and Misty reaches a hand over to cover her wife’s. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Yu says again.</p><p> </p><p>“With all due respect, that doesn’t mean shit to me,” Cordelia says. Her face is flushed and splotchy from emotion, now, and the light mascara that was once on her lashes is now under her eyes. “What are we supposed to do with this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Is there a time we can expect to know?” Misty asks. “I mean, will there be any more results from the — the autopsy?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s possible,” she says, and Misty sighs.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia shakes her head and reaches her arm down to pick up her Chanel bag from where it sits next to her on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia,” Misty says, but Cordelia rises from her chair anyways. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t do this,” Cordelia says, and Misty stands up. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t sit here and just get absolutely nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Misty says again. She inhales deeply and looks at their doctor, who has also now risen from her seat. “Thank you, Dr. Yu. Please call us if—”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>november 8</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to hover. I’m okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty watches as Cordelia closes one bottle of vitamins and opens the next. She takes a pill out to add it to her pile.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Misty says, but she has no plan to stop. </p><p> </p><p>It’s only been for the last three days that Cordelia has spent more time out of their bed than in it. </p><p> </p><p>She turns around, leaning her back against the kitchen counter, and folds her arms over her belly. “I want to go back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty swallows her sip of water. “Are you sure? There’s no rush, honey.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s been a month. I want to go back. I can’t sit here in this house all day anymore.” She pauses. “Every time I walk past that door, Mist, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Misty says. “Me, too.”</p><p> </p><p>They’d kept the door to the nursery closed. Cordelia refused to go inside, and insisted that she would when she had a plan for what to do with everything inside it. Misty went in alone, almost nightly, when her insomnia kept her awake. She’d sit in the chair, or sometimes on the floor, and reminisce.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, usually if she’d been drinking, she’d allow herself to pretend that she was sitting merely to keep watch over Henry while he slept. She was just waiting for him to cry for his mama, she’d tell herself, or wake up for a midnight feeding. She’d lift him out of his crib and kiss his face and maybe sing him a song. If Cordelia had pumped enough for a bottle, Misty would sit with him in the rocking chair and feed him herself. If not, she’d carry him to their bedroom, and gently wake her wife so that she could breastfeed him. Misty would stay awake with her the entire time, ready to burp him when he finished eating, and take him back to his crib. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a dangerous game, she knows, but she can’t stop. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you look at the website I sent?” Misty asks.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia moves to the sink and starts washing dishes, and Misty tries not to audibly sigh. This was her wife’s M.O. Any time Cordelia wanted to avoid something — a conversation, an emotion, even a person — she finds something to clean. A tangible mess, something she can visibly fix. </p><p> </p><p>“I did,” Cordelia says, moving a mug to the dishwasher.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m getting the sense you’re not all in.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to go to a grief group.” Cordelia shakes her head, but doesn’t look over at Misty. “I’ll be fine; <em> we’ll </em>be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you ask Heather about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia sighs. “Yes. She said she thought it would be helpful. She’s my therapist. What else would she say?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty shrugs. “Normally, you value her opinion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Normally, yes,” Cordelia agrees, starting on the stack of dirty plates. “But I know myself best. Sitting in a circle with other sad people, hearing about their own sad stories, is only going to make all of this worse.”</p><p> </p><p>“Vocalizing our grief is a crucial part of the healing process,” Misty insists. “Which you’d know if you bothered to read any of the books I got for us.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia turns around now, still holding a plate in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need a book to tell me how to mourn our son. I do that plenty well all by myself. And I sure as shit don’t need a <em> grief group</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“What about me?” Misty notices the raised level in her voice, but she doesn’t stop. “What if I want to go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, then go! No one is stopping you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to be there with me. I want us to do this together.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to join the Dead Babies Club!” Cordelia snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, that’s the club we’re in!”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia drops her arms angrily, and the plate she’s holding shatters against the ceramic bar that divides the sink. </p><p> </p><p>She’s shaking, now, and she rests her elbows on the counter in front of the sink to let her face fall into her palms. </p><p> </p><p>Misty moves to stand behind her, and Cordelia blindly puts one hand up in a signal for Misty to stop. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” she says.</p><p> </p><p>Misty ignores her, and wraps both arms around Cordelia’s middle, wincing when she feels the bump of her still-rounded belly. She uses two hands to turn Cordelia to face her, and Cordelia collapses into Misty’s chest, sobbing.</p><p> </p><p>Her tears drench the top of Misty’s dress, and Misty’s own tears are getting lost in Cordelia’s hair. </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Misty whispers, and kisses her head. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>november 13</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The doorbell rings just before seven o’clock, and Misty makes her way into the foyer to answer it. </p><p> </p><p>Coco has a bottle of wine in one hand and a take-out bag from Cordelia’s favorite sushi spot in the other.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Misty says warmly, moving to the side so that Coco can step in. Once she’s closed the door, she finds herself accepting a hug from the other woman.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you?” Coco asks when she’s pulled back. </p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Misty shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>Coco offers an empathetic nod. “And how’s she doing today?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty inhales. “The same,” she answers honestly. “I’m grabbing dinner tonight with a friend, but y’all have fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try not to get her too drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty snorts. “I think I’d like it if you did.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco raises an eyebrow. “Noted.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty follows Coco through the home and into the living room, where Cordelia is reading. She perches on the arm of the couch, and bends to kiss her wife. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she says. “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, too.” Cordelia kisses her again, and reaches up a hand to squeeze Misty’s. </p><p> </p><p>Misty bids goodbye to Coco, who is opening the bottle of wine in the kitchen, and then she’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>Coco brings Cordelia her glass, which she’d poured generously, and sits down on the couch across from her. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not really, no.”</p><p> </p><p>“I brought Tsunami,” Coco says, giving a nod to the bags of takeout on the kitchen counter.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia doesn’t say anything, just sips on her wine, and Coco tilts her head skeptically. </p><p> </p><p>“You haven’t had sushi in months. Let me at least get it out and then you can decide if you want it. You have to eat dinner, anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Coco agrees, and gets up to unpack the sushi. She sets it out on the large coffee table, chopsticks and all, and begins eating. </p><p> </p><p>“Misty said you’re thinking about going back to the office.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I need to get out of this house.”</p><p> </p><p>“I get that,” Coco says. “You could do other things besides going back to your stressful job, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like, going for walks. We could go to Pilates.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t, actually, go to Pilates. Dr. Yu said I have to wait a few more weeks.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco bites her lip. “Sorry. Fuck, sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine.” Cordelia takes a sip of wine. “I have the pleasure of being constantly reminded by my own body that I am very much post-labor. Still in a diaper; can’t have sex, even if I wanted to; my boobs are still leaking milk; and, best of all, I have this bump that my doctor apparently has no idea of when it will disappear.” </p><p> </p><p>Coco stares at her for a moment, and sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“At least you can drink?” She says, earning a small smile from her friend.</p><p> </p><p>“At least there’s that,” Cordelia agrees.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you try and eat something? I promised Misty—”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia rolls her eyes. “I don’t need to be babysat, Co.”</p><p> </p><p>“You do, if you’re not going to take proper care of yourself.” Coco offers her a set of chopsticks, and Cordelia finally takes it. “She just wants what’s best for you, you know that.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia reaches for a piece of sushi. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you talked any more to Fiona? About the—”</p><p> </p><p>“Funeral?” Cordelia finishes for her. “Nope. She wants to do some kind of gathering or something. I told her Misty and I would talk about it and let her know. We haven’t even seen the plaque for the headstone yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco feels her stomach turn at the mention of a headstone. Briefly, she thinks of the pile of gifts still in her living room. Stacks on stacks of beautifully wrapped toys, clothes, and accessories she’d bought for her godson. If Cordelia notices the quick change in her facial expression, she doesn’t mention it. </p><p> </p><p>“You picked it out, though, right?” Coco asks.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia hums into her wine glass. “Misty found this independent artist who does them. It’s going to cost more than this couch, but,” she shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“You feel good about it, though?”</p><p> </p><p>“About the plaque, sure. About the artist — <em> Bonnie </em> is her name—”</p><p> </p><p>“Ew.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia snorts. “I don’t know. I think she has a crush on Misty.”</p><p> </p><p>“You think everyone has a crush on Misty,” Coco says dryly. </p><p> </p><p>“And I’m usually right. It’s whatever, she’s fine. She’s just — sort of a hippie type. Talked a lot about how headstones were a window into someone’s life, or something—”</p><p> </p><p>Coco makes a gagging motion, and now Cordelia actually smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“As long as it looks like what we want it to, I’ll be fine.” She pauses. “I mean, not fine, but at least that part of this living nightmare will be checked off of my list.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco nods. She hesitates before asking her next question, but her voice is more confident than she feels.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Cordelia says firmly. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay. That’s okay. I just want you to know—“</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>november 15</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia returns to her office the following Monday. </p><p> </p><p>She had only alerted HR and her assistant that she’d be back so much sooner than expected. But word had clearly gotten out. </p><p> </p><p>As she walks down the office’s main hallway, she tries to ignore the dozens of eyes she feels following her. </p><p> </p><p>She’s immensely relieved when she finally arrives at the door of her corner office. She shuts it behind her and leans against it for a few moments before hanging her coat and moving to her desk.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just as she left it — pristine. </p><p> </p><p>She sits down in her chair, and she’s just opened her laptop when she notices the empty frame sitting on the corner of her desk.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you like it?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Misty is smiling from ear to ear as she watches Cordelia trace a finger across the gold ridges of the frame.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I love it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Our first photo as a family of three will go right in there. And then you can think of the baby and I all day long at work.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia laughs. “Believe me, I already do.” She leans up to kiss Misty. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s perfect.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia swallows thickly. She feels an onset of tears at the recollection of that day, but she wills herself against crying. She will not dissolve into a hormonal, emotional disaster within her first ten minutes back at work.</p><p> </p><p>Folding the back of the frame into itself, she opens a drawer and places it delicately inside. </p><p> </p><p>She returns her attention to her laptop and opens her email, where she has hundreds of unread messages in her inbox. </p><p> </p><p>She clicks to open the first one, a reply from a client to the Out of Office message she’d set to be sent to anyone who had emailed her during her time on leave. Her eyes scan the screen.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>
  <em> Hi Cordelia, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Please disregard the request in my previous email — I didn’t know you had left on maternity leave! I’ll work with Noah on it while you’re out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Congratulations! I can’t wait to see pictures of that precious baby.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Best,</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eleanor </em>
</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>She slams the laptop shut immediately. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck this,” she murmurs, and rises from her desk. “Fuck this fucking bullshit.” She grabs her coat from where it hangs on the door, and haphazardly slings it on before leaving her office and starting down the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>This time, she expects everyone will be staring at her. It doesn’t make it any less miserable. </p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>november 19</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just over here.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty and Cordelia follow Bonnie, the artist they’d hired to make the headstone plaque, down a hallway and into a large office space, where there’s a table set out before them.</p><p> </p><p>“How does this look?” She asks them. </p><p> </p><p>They stare down at the slab of white granite before them. Misty’s eyes well up immediately, and she wraps her arm around Cordelia’s waist to pull her closer.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia reaches a hand out to touch the plaque, tracing her fingertip into the notches of the engraved text. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Misty says, after a minute. She looks up at the artist. “Thank you very much.”</p><p> </p><p>“The color is off.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty looks at Cordelia, whose eyes are now on Bonnie. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not the right color. The gold that we chose was a lighter shade.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie licks her lips. “Sometimes, the indentation of the text can make it seem a bit darker. In the daylight—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not interested in what it looks like at different times of the day,” Cordelia interrupts. “I’m looking at it now, and it’s wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia,” Misty says.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia shrugs out from under Misty’s arm. “It’s wrong. It needs to be right. It needs to be the one we picked.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty looks at Bonnie apologetically.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll give you a moment,” the woman says. </p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need a moment,” Cordelia tells her. “We just need the plaque to look like what we agreed it would look like.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Misty says to Bonnie. “If you could, actually, just leave us for a few minutes, please?” </p><p> </p><p>When she’s exited the room, the door closed softly behind her, Misty turns to her wife.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t even start with me, Misty,” Cordelia says. “The color is wrong. I’m not burying our son under a headstone that we will have to visit for the rest of our lives if it’s not right.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not about the color,” Misty says. “You can’t talk to people like that. I know that you’re hurting, but lashing out at this woman is not helping anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, so I should flirt with her, like you do?”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, you think I haven’t noticed the way she looks at you?” Cordelia scoffs. “Go ahead — fuck her. She seems like she’d be fun. Just get her to fix our son’s headstone while you’re at it. Because we’re not using that one.”</p><p> </p><p>Without another word, Cordelia turns on her heel and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. </p><p> </p><p>Misty looks down at her shaking hands. Her body is hot with the emotional charge of the conversation. She brings up her hands to cover her face. The scream she lets out is mostly muffled.</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>november 28</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Mrs. Day. I’m Lionel Rhodes. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty shakes the man’s hand. God, if she had a dollar for each time she’d heard that phrase over the last two months. She thanks him anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Lionel leads her inside, and Misty notices that Fiona has already arrived. She’s facing a wall, her eyes scanning the different frames hanging, but she turns at the sound of their entrance. </p><p> </p><p>“Misty,” Fiona nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Fiona,” Misty says cordially.</p><p> </p><p>“Is Cordelia on her way?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty clears her throat. “No, actually. She’s not coming.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? What does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think I was pretty clear. She’s not coming.”</p><p> </p><p>Fiona takes a step towards her, and normally, Misty would have to remind herself not to cower. For the good four inches she had on her mother-in-law, Misty was intimately familiar with Fiona’s ability to shrink anyone under her gaze. Today, though, Misty has never cared less about what Fiona thinks. She doesn’t have enough emotional space to shoulder it. </p><p> </p><p>“She’s <em> not coming </em> to choose the floral arrangements for the funeral of her infant son?”</p><p> </p><p>“I can decline to repeat myself for the third time, or I can kick your ass out of this meeting altogether.”</p><p> </p><p>“And my credit card along with it.”</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need your money, Fiona. You know that. I understand that you want to do this, for Cordelia — for your grandson — and it’s kind of you to offer. But we don’t need you. I’m here, and Cordelia’s not. Accept that or leave. I couldn’t care less, either way.”</p><p> </p><p>Fiona is glaring, now, but she doesn’t immediately speak, and Misty knows she’s won this one. </p><p> </p><p>Fiona turns to Lionel. “It looks like we’ll be getting started, now.”</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>december 6</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Misty, hi. Come in.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty steps inside the office and moves to sit at one of the chairs in front of Bonnie’s desk.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. It’s just me today,” she says, letting the other woman know that she can close the door. </p><p> </p><p>“I have the new plaque,” Bonnie says, and lifts the protective linen cloth off to show her client.</p><p> </p><p>Misty tears up instantly at the sight of it, and she quickly brushes two tears that fall from the corners of her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty sniffles. “Not that it — well, not that it’s really important, but what did you do? I mean, what did you change? To be honest, it looks the same as the original one to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie smiles. “I used a more reflective tool to shape the letters. It’s mostly an optical illusion, but it may look brighter.” She pauses. “To tell you the truth, the original one <em> was </em> the color you both had initially selected. But, I understand how important it is that these things are perfect. So, if this one looks even just a bit closer to the idea you both had in your head, then it’s worth it.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty nods. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry about what happened the last time we were here. My wife is —she’s not normally like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Grief makes people act in all kinds of ways,” Bonnie says. “I’ve seen it all. I understand.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty scoffs sadly. “Any idea about how long it takes until they come back around?”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie smiles. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I really appreciate this. And, to be clear, we will pay for both versions.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, it’s—”</p><p> </p><p>“I insist.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie nods. “I’ll have my assistant send the invoice.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Misty says. “Before you do, I’ll bring Cordelia by so she can see this new one. If I don’t, you may be adding my headstone to that invoice.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie laughs before she can stop herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Misty says wistfully. “Bad joke.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be. You’d be surprised how far keeping a sense of humor can carry you through the grieving process,” Bonnie says, and Misty shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s fair, but I’ve got to say, I don’t know how you do this for a living. The amount of the sadness you probably see on a daily basis is more than most people would ever want in a lifetime.”</p><p> </p><p>“I find a sort of peace in it,” Bonnie says. “Yes, it’s horribly sad to see people at their worst, at the depths of their pain. But, ultimately, I get to help them find a piece of closure that they may visit for the rest of their lives. Graveyards are depressing, but they’re also full of more love than most places. You’d be amazed at the dedication. Headstones showered with flowers, photos, gifts, letters. They’re where people go to talk, to cry, and to laugh. To feel close to the ones they lost. It’s magic, I think.” </p><p> </p><p>Bonnie finally makes eye contact again, and she realizes Misty is still staring at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. Rambling.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t apologize,” Misty says. “You’re right. It’s really beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie flushes, and she rises out of her seat, perhaps, Misty thinks, to break the tension that had settled in the room. Misty follows suit.</p><p> </p><p>“I, um,” Bonnie starts, rather nervously, “have a show this weekend. Sort of. It’s a little macabre. I’m a photographer, too, and a gallery downtown is featuring my work. It’s a collection of photos of headstones in their resting places, sometimes bare, sometimes full of the stuff people bring.” Bonnie shakes her head self-consciously. “It’s weird. But, it may be interesting, or maybe reassuring, just to be around other people who are in other stages of grief.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty nods slowly. “That sounds wonderful, actually. I’ll try to come.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Saturday, at the Stella Jones Gallery. Nine PM.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Bonnie says, walking Misty to the door. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call to make an appointment to bring Cordelia by. And, maybe I’ll see you Saturday.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie offers a small smile. “Okay. Have a great evening.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, you, too.”</p><p> </p><p>As Misty starts down the hallway outside of the office, she marks the event in her phone’s calendar.</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>december 9</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Misty arrives at the Stella Jones Gallery at half past nine, and she’s far from the first to arrive. Dozens of people are talking, drinking, and admiring the art showcased on the walls. </p><p> </p><p>She sees the bar setup, near the back of the space, and makes her way over. </p><p> </p><p>“What can I get for you? </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll have a whiskey, please. Neat.”</p><p> </p><p>The bartender nods and, within a minute, Misty is walking away with her glass. She approaches the piece closest to her first, just as a couple is walking away from it.</p><p> </p><p>A headstone stands alone, a man’s name engraved in the granite. Next to it sits a bucket, shaped like a Jack-o-lantern, overflowing with candy. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie’s voice startles Misty, who turns to see the other woman. She’s holding a glass of champagne in her hand and smiling at Misty.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m really glad you could make it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me, too. Your work is stunning,” Misty says. “And, what a great turnout. You must be proud.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s really exciting,” Bonnie says. “Cordelia couldn’t make it?”</p><p> </p><p>“She wasn’t really in the mood to go out tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie nods, saying nothing further, and Misty looks back at the photograph she’d been studying. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me about this one.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie moves her eyes from Misty to the wall. </p><p> </p><p>“He was a father of four young kids,” Bonnie says, and Misty frowns. “Loved Halloween — it was his favorite holiday. He passed a few years ago, and, every Halloween, his kids bring him a bucket of all his favorite candy. They sit around his grave, all dressed in their costumes, and just talk to him. It’s really sweet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Misty nods, and sips on her whiskey. The liquor burns in her chest and then in her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought a lot about what we’d do for Halloween this last year,” she says, keeping her eyes on the art. “Cordelia’s due date was in early October, so we knew Henry—” Misty stops, and it takes her a moment to get her breath back after getting to say her child’s name out loud.</p><p> </p><p>“We knew he’d be a few weeks old,” she continues. She chuckles to herself. “I wanted to dress him up in one of those little baby costumes. Maybe put him in a pumpkin.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’d be awfully cute,” Bonnie agrees.</p><p> </p><p>“There are so many things like that, you know?” Misty says. “So many plans and dreams that just sort of vanished into thin air.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Bonnie pauses. “Did he — I mean, did you — did you get to meet him?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Misty says, and her heart seizes. “I mean, we did. But he was gone already.” She takes a sip of her whiskey. “He was perfect.” She smiles and wipes a tear from where it‘s sliding down her cheek. “I spent so much time imagining what his cry would sound like. If I’d come to know his different ones. Parents say that, you know? That there are different sounds babies make depending on whether they’re hungry, or tired, or just need some love. What I wouldn’t give to hear even just one of his.”</p><p> </p><p>She looks back at Bonnie, now, and she sniffles. “Sorry.” She chuckles and takes another sip of her drink. “I don’t really talk about him all that much. It’s real hard for Cordelia.”</p><p> </p><p>Bonnie nods in understanding, and sets a delicate hand on Misty’s arm.</p><p> </p><p>“You would have made a really great mom.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty brushes another tear off of her face and smiles. “Thanks,” she sighs, and then rolls her shoulders back. “Alright. Want to show me your other favorites?”</p><p> </p><p>An hour and several more drinks later, Misty has decided on one that she wants to purchase. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll show you the frames if you want one to put it in,” Bonnie says, smiling proudly. “They’re in the back.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d love one,” Misty agrees, and follows her through the space.</p><p> </p><p>The back room of the gallery is quieter, the only noise coming from the echoes of chatter in the main space. </p><p> </p><p>“Take a look at these and let me know what you think,” Bonnie says, pointing Misty to a collection of frames on the wall. She leans her back on a nearby table and looks at her new friend. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t thank you enough for coming tonight. And, for buying a piece.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty turns to smile at her. “You’re very talented. I’m happy to.” </p><p> </p><p>Bonnie clears her throat. “I know you’re going through a lot. And, I just wanted to say that it’s been a pleasure to have you as a client. Maybe we could even,” she takes a breath, and steps closer to Misty, “be friends?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty stares at her, and the silence between them is overwhelming. Bonnie doesn’t take her eyes off Misty as she reaches an arm out to set her near-empty glass of champagne down on the table. </p><p> </p><p>With two free hands, she palms Misty’s arms and glides her hands down them. When Misty says nothing, Bonnie leans in to kiss her.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls her lips from Misty’s after a few seconds, waiting for any indication that she should stop. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, Misty closes the space between them again.</p><p> </p><p>She can taste the whiskey she’d been drinking on Bonnie’s mouth, now. Between that and the feeling of Bonnie’s arms — soft and slender, like Cordelia’s — something in her breaks.</p><p> </p><p>She steps forward, moving Bonnie with her, and wraps both of her arms around the smaller woman. Bonnie moans into her mouth, and she twists her fingers in Misty’s hair before moving them down to start undoing the buttons on Misty’s silk, white shirt. </p><p> </p><p>The cold air hits her chest, now bare except for her thin bra, and she stops.</p><p> </p><p>Goosebumps prickle on her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s—" Bonnie starts, but Misty shakes her head. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” She bends to collect her blouse from the floor, and hastily buttons herself back up.</p><p> </p><p>“Misty—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” Misty says, picking up her clutch from the table. She looks at Bonnie, who is rubbing at her own arm in an attempt to get the warmth she’d felt from Misty back. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>She turns to leave, stopping at the doorway to turn around for a last time. “You can ship the photo to me; just charge the card on file.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, she’s gone. </p><p> </p><p>She makes her way out of the gallery as quickly as possible and hails a cab. She barely remembers giving the driver her address, because she’s pulling out her phone to check herself in the front camera. </p><p> </p><p>Her hair is slightly tousled, but not enough to arouse suspicion. She hadn’t worn much makeup, and certainly not lipstick, and her blouse looks fine the way she’d re-done it.</p><p> </p><p>When she gets home, she finds the house dark and quiet. She knows Cordelia is already in bed sleeping. Somehow, it makes her feel even worse.</p><p> </p><p>She flips on a light in the kitchen and pours herself a glass of whiskey. She drains it in a single sip, and pours another before setting the bottle aside and walking out of the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>She feels the tears at her eyes before she even opens the door, and this time they’re accompanied by a horrible, nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Closing the door to the nursery behind her, she walks over to the crib. She lifts the soft stuffed giraffe, a gift for Henry from one of her friends, out of it and clutches it to her chest. As tears begin to sting her eyelids, she moves to put her back against the wall, and slides down until she’s sitting on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>She cries herself to sleep, not waking until the wee hours of the morning, when she moves to the bedroom with a throbbing headache. </p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>december 14</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“May I offer you a crab cake, garnished with horseradish creme?” </p><p> </p><p>Misty shakes her head, but offers a smile at the man in front of her. “I’m alright, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco takes one from the proffered platter, along with a small napkin, and thanks him. </p><p> </p><p>“How much do you think she spent on catering?” Misty says, quietly enough for only Coco to hear, once the waiter has walked away.</p><p> </p><p>Coco takes a bite of the appetizer. “Easily five grand. But, fuck, this crab cake is good.” She swallows. “I can’t imagine why you’d need hors d'oeuvres and a full bar set up for six people, but you know Fiona doesn’t do anything half-way.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty snorts. “Hell would sooner freeze.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco looks at her. “Cords really didn’t want more people here, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Truthfully, I don’t even think she wants this at all.” She eyes her wife across the room, half-engaged in a conversation with two women she considered family.</p><p> </p><p>“I know her Aunt Myrtle and Marie mean the world to her,” Misty continues, “but they still look at her like she’s the fragile, eight-year-old girl she was when they met her. Normally, I think she sort of likes it — they’ve both been more motherly to her than Fiona ever was — but, now, it just makes her shrink.”</p><p> </p><p>Coco sighs into her wine glass. “Maybe we should go save her.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Misty says, and Coco raises an eyebrow. “She needs this. She needs some sort of socialization, some interaction.”</p><p> </p><p>“She hasn’t gone back to the office since that first day, I guess?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. Won’t even talk about it.”</p><p> </p><p>If Coco detects the twinge of bitterness in Misty’s voice, she doesn’t mention it. </p><p> </p><p>As Misty nurses her glass of water, she watches Fiona fuss over an already-perfect bouquet of flowers on her mantle. A waitstaff member approaches her with a question, and Misty sees her roll her eyes before telling the young woman to follow her back into the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>“What does your monster-in-law have planned for this, anyhow?” Coco asks. </p><p> </p><p>“She keeps referring to it as a <em> celebration of Henry’s life</em>,” Misty says. She intends for the words to come out wryly, but her tone softens as she says her son’s name. “I can’t tell if she’s actually trying to provide a space for grieving and closure or if she just wants a show of it. But, this was her only grandchild. She’s a bitch, but she’s a bitch who loved my son.”</p><p> </p><p>On the other side of the living room, Myrtle and Marie each gather Cordelia in a hug as the conversation dissipates. While the women take appetizers they’re offered, Cordelia walks towards Misty. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Misty says, wrapping an arm around her. She knows better than to ask if Cordelia is okay, and moves to press a kiss into her blonde hair instead. “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia just leans heavier into Misty, and Misty rubs her back.</p><p> </p><p>Fiona re-enters the room, a glass of champagne in her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“If you’d all be so kind,” Fiona says, and the quiet chatter among the other five women dies as members of the hired staff leave inconspicuously.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to thank you all for being here.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia sets her jaw to keep herself from rolling her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Today, we honor and celebrate the memory of Henry Day, my daughter’s firstborn son and my grandchild. I didn’t get the privilege of meeting him, but I will always remember and love him. I appreciate each of you coming today, to give my grandson some semblance of the true memorial he deserves.”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Cordelia asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia, don’t interrupt.”</p><p> </p><p>“Answer me,” she says, and pulls out of Misty’s hold.</p><p> </p><p>Fiona grimaces, irked that her speech had been disturbed. “it’s no secret that you haven’t shown much interest in properly grieving Henry. This six-person soiree is hardly what I’d call a respectable funeral.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fiona,” Misty says, a warning, but her mother-in-law doesn’t move her eyes from her daughter’s. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t talk about him, you won’t go through his things,” Fiona continues, her tone sharper. “You didn’t even show up to pick out the goddamn floral arrangements for this. Now, I understand if you feel guilty, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Guilty?” Cordelia shrieks out the word, and Coco, Myrtle, and Marie seemingly silently agree to leave the room to give them privacy. Only Misty notices.</p><p> </p><p>Fiona lifts her chin. “You like to do things your own way. <em> Cordelia </em> has to be in charge, has to have control. You’re stubborn; it makes you successful, but you can’t ignore the repercussions of deciding to have a home birth instead of being in a hospital, like any smart woman would—”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Misty snarls, but Cordelia’s voice is louder and more hysterical. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to imply that I’m responsible for my son’s death?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you had been in a hospital, with doctors around—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Fiona,” Misty says. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Cordelia has been through enough—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, and so much help you’ve been,” Fiona says, eyeing Misty. “Babying my daughter at every turn, letting her descend into this mess she’s become.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about empathy,” Misty snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“She needs to confront this,” Fiona says, and looks back to Cordelia. “You’re a shell of a human being. I didn’t raise you to shirk responsibility like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“You hardly raised me at all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well I’m here now, aren’t I? And what I’m telling you is that you need to be a grown woman and <em> deal with this </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em> dealing with this,” Cordelia screams. “This is me, dealing with this! Every fucking day that I wake up, I’m dealing with this.” Her face grows redder, and Misty thinks better than to interrupt her wife now, and instead sinks into the armchair behind her and lets her face fall into her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I have to live, every day, in a body that tells me that my son is here. Every night, when I fall asleep, I dream about him. I have loved him since the moment I knew of his existence, and I will love him for every day that I have left in my life. I always knew you were a shit mother, but now I know it in my bones. I would never, ever abandon Henry the way you abandoned me. No decent mother could. I don’t know how you sleep at night, but I hope when you do, you don’t think of me.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia leaves the room and grabs her Chanel bag from the entry table before slamming the front door loudly enough to shake the house.</p><p> </p><p>Misty slowly rises from her chair and eyes Fiona. She doesn’t think she’s seen her mother-in-law so troubled. She gives her a long look, and, without another word, leaves the house. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t speak on the drive home.</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia is shaking, and crying silent tears as Misty drives. </p><p> </p><p>When they enter their house, Cordelia goes straight to their bedroom and closes the door behind her. Misty sighs and shrugs out of her shawl so she can hang it in the hallway. She gives Cordelia a few minutes before approaching the door and knocking. When she receives no answer, she gently pushes inside. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia is sitting on the bed, her back to Misty. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to be alone,” Cordelia says, neglecting to turn around. </p><p> </p><p>Misty pauses. She wants to respect her wife’s boundaries, but Fiona’s words burn unwittingly in her mind. Had she failed Cordelia? Had she not cared for her properly, not been forceful enough in helping her heal?</p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re upset,” Misty starts, taking a step into the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you hear what I said?”</p><p> </p><p>“I did. And I think it’s important that we talk.”</p><p> </p><p>Now, Cordelia turns around. “You think we’re on the same side here, now that you yelled at Fiona for me?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty furrows her eyebrows, and Cordelia scoffs. </p><p> </p><p>“Why’d you come home so late on Saturday?” Misty doesn’t immediately answer, but she holds Cordelia’s gaze. “Even after you got home, you didn’t come to bed for hours. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Misty swallows. “I kissed Bonnie,” she says, her voice empty. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia nods, and the small smile that appears on her face terrifies Misty. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s great. That’s just rich,” she says. “I have a dead son, a mother who blames me for his death, and a cheating wife.”</p><p><br/><br/>“Cordelia,” Misty moves towards her, but Cordelia rises from the bed and puts a hand out. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. Do not touch me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Misty says instead. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. We were at the gallery show, and it was emotional, and, god, she was asking me about you, and Henry—”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you dare use our son to justify this,” Cordelia barks. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t mean to.” Misty bunches her fingers in her hair at the top of her scalp. “I just — I need to <em> talk </em> about him, Cordelia.”</p><p> </p><p>“You needed to make out with Bonnie to grieve our son?”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Misty feels tears sting at her eyes. “But you act like I don’t even exist anymore! You don’t look at me, you don’t touch me. You shut everyone out. You won’t accept any help—”</p><p> </p><p>“Get out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Cordelia—”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia screams it now, but Misty doesn’t move. </p><p> </p><p>“I just got this speech from Fiona,” Cordelia heaves, and she’s crying, now, too. “I don’t need it again. Leave. Now.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Misty stares at her. “I am your wife, and I love you more than anything in this world. But you can’t keep doing this.” </p><p> </p><p>Misty shatters, then, her tears overcoming her, and she sobs into her hands. Cordelia’s jaw trembles, but she doesn’t dare move.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to forget,” Misty says brokenly. “I want to remember — everything.” She looks up at Cordelia through watery eyes. “The sound of his heartbeat, the way his feet and fists and elbows felt against the palm of my hands through your belly. I don’t want to forget any of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> can’t </em> forget,” Cordelia says, her voice raised. “I have to remember, every day. I can’t even take a fucking shower without seeing myself naked and seeing this bump where he was. I don’t think I will ever be okay again. Ever.”</p><p> </p><p>“But, then, at least let me share that with you.” Misty’s hands reach for Cordelia’s face, now, and Cordelia doesn’t stop her as she palms her watery cheeks. “Please. Let me share that burden with you. Talk to me about it. Tell me everything. I love you. I want to know.” She hiccups. “And I want to be able to tell you how I miss him. How I hold his stuffed giraffe in the nursery and think about how much he would have loved it. How I dream about what you would have looked like, nursing him at your chest in our bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia’s face falls sideways into one of Misty’s hands. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she croaks. </p><p> </p><p>“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Misty tells her, thumbing a tear that rolls down Cordelia’s cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“I do. I was carrying him, but you’re Henry’s mother, too. And I — god, Misty, I haven’t been there for you at all,” Cordelia sobs.</p><p> </p><p>Misty pulls her in, now, moving her hands to wrap around Cordelia’s back. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, too,” Misty says into her neck. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>january 7</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to take a moment to welcome a couple of newcomers, Misty and Cordelia Day.”</p><p> </p><p>All eyes in the room land on the two women, who each scan the circle of sympathetic faces. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Misty says to the group’s leader. “I’m Misty Day, and this is my wife, Cordelia.” She hesitates. “I’m not really sure how to — um, what to say.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can share as much or as little as you’d like,” the leader says, and she’s reinforced by the encouraging expressions from several people in the group.</p><p> </p><p>Misty stammers for a moment, and then Cordelia reaches a hand over to squeeze hers. Misty looks down at their hands, and then back up at the faces around her.</p><p> </p><p>“We lost our son, Henry, in childbirth. He was perfectly healthy and strong, until he wasn’t. His body couldn’t produce enough oxygen during the labor, and that was it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia rubs her thumb against the rings on Misty’s hands. </p><p> </p><p>“We had his room all ready. Everyone knew, all our friends and family. He was one spoiled little boy,” Misty says, smiling earnestly. “He had miles of books, and stuffed animals, and cute little clothes waiting for him. He had a name.”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again, it almost appears she’s talking to herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I think the hardest part — in the midst of how hard all of it is — is the whiplash. We were happier than we’d ever been. Cordelia was glowing. God, she was so gorgeous. She’s always gorgeous, but this was just different.”</p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone offer Cordelia a tissue for her tears. Misty wants to stop talking, to look at Cordelia and hold her and comfort her, but she’s afraid if she does, she won’t ever finish.</p><p> </p><p>“We were so, so happy. And then, it felt like we were plucked out of that daydream and dropped into a nightmare. It felt unreal. We had no idea how to navigate it. We still really don’t,” she confesses.</p><p> </p><p>Her words are met with nods and hums, and the reassurance issues more relief than she’d expected. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve had some dark days, these last few months. Really dark. I think the worst is behind us, but every day is still hard. We got to hold him. And, even though he wasn’t really there, I remember how he looked, nestled in my wife’s arms. Not an hour goes by that I don’t think of him. The soft, blonde fuzz on his head. All of the things we could have had, could have done, with him. What he’d look like. What kind of person he’d grow up to be. I know that I’ll think about all of those things for the rest of my life.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess, I’d just say that, I want to move forward. Life without Henry has seemed horrible and daunting and just downright wrong. But, it’s our reality. At the end of the day, I have my wife.” Misty does look at Cordelia now, and her tear-stained face looking back at Misty is enough to break Misty’s heart into a thousand pieces. She squeezes her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“And I know that, as long as we have each other, we will be okay. Because I’m not sure of a whole lot, these days, but one thing I know is that my wife is the most incredible, most resilient person on the planet. And we will get through this together.”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs out a breath that she feels she’s been holding for months. The relief is enough to make her dizzy.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for listening,” she finishes.</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>february 18</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Morning light peeks in between the curtains of the room, and Cordelia slowly blinks her eyes open. </p><p> </p><p>She turns over in bed, feeling her muscles ache with the movement. It’s a pleasant feeling she hasn’t experienced in a long time. On the other side of the large bed, Misty is sleeping soundly. Cordelia looks at her wife’s blonde curls splayed out across the pillow. Her arm had stretched out over the covers towards Cordelia during the night, exposing the top of her chest. </p><p> </p><p>On the suggestion of Cordelia’s therapist, they had booked a vacation to get away from the city and spend quality time together. Heather insisted they get an escape from the house, the cold weather, and the routine they’d settled back into before Cordelia’s pregnancy had begun — which now included their grief group and extra therapy sessions. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Misty won’t want to miss Group.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia’s therapist of six years studies her. “You could ask her.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia looks down at her hands and twists her wedding ring on her finger. Heather speaks again. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you want to talk about why you’re hesitant to book a vacation?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia looks up at her, and Heather tilts her head. “Something tells me Misty wouldn’t mind missing one Group session to whisk you away on a trip.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia clears her throat. “I don’t know that I’m ready.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ready for?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sex.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Heather nods. “You don’t have to have sex. Has Misty asked you to?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “She did, once. I told her I wasn’t — I said I didn’t feel well.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Did you? Feel well?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re being rude.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m asking a question,” Heather says patiently. “We talked about how Dr. Yu said you were cleared for any physical activity of your choosing in December.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A red flush creeps up Cordelia’s neck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You don’t have to be embarrassed. You experienced trauma, both bodily and emotional. It’s more than normal for you to be nervous about — or simply not want — sex. But you can own that, and it’s okay. You don’t have to give an excuse or make something else up.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia says nothing, so Heather probes further.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Before and during your pregnancy, you enjoyed sex.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes,” Cordelia says, a bit too sharply. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You talked about feeling comfortable, and safe, and sexy, with Misty.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia’s blush grows, and she feels sweat under her arms.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you still feel that way?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I still feel safe with Misty, yes.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you feel attractive?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia swallows. “I don’t know. I don’t know this body.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Heather doesn’t say anything, leaving space for Cordelia to expand.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The bump is gone, thank god,” Cordelia says. “My breasts are back to normal, I guess.” She shifts in her seat. “I still failed, though. My body failed. I was carrying our child. Misty trusted me — I trusted myself — to deliver him, safe and sound. And I couldn’t do that.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tears burn at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Misty loved my body when I was pregnant. I did, too. But I loved that she loved it. And, now—” Cordelia’s voice cracks, and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I just don’t see how she could love this one. I sure as hell don’t.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Heather nods. “Does Misty still touch you, in non-sexual ways?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “She tries. I think she feels bad for me. She tries to comfort me.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Is it possible that she touches you because she </em> wants <em> to, and not because she’s trying to console you?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia sniffles. She dabs a tissue from the side table against her eyes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You mentioned she’s brought up sex before. It sounds like maybe she’s wanted to?” </em>
</p><p><em><br/></em> <em> Cordelia makes a vague motion, between a shrug and a nod.  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Do </em> you <em> want to? Leave Misty’s feelings out of it, for a minute. Do you want to sleep with her?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I miss her. I miss everything with her.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “So, let’s talk about that vacation again, then,” Heather says. “If Misty is willing to miss a Group session,” she says, and Cordelia can tell from her therapist’s tone that she’s being gently teased, “would you be willing to take a trip together? You may have sex, and you may not. But, it sounds like you’d get what you’re both wanting, which is some quality time together.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Cordelia sighs. She disposes of the tissue in the nearby wastebasket. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll ask her.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Heather nods. “You said you miss Misty. She’s still there, Cordelia. You don’t have to miss her.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They’d arrived in St. Bart’s yesterday morning, and spent the day lounging in the sun and sipping cocktails. At dusk, they’d returned to their beachside villa. Cordelia was slightly drunk, and very horny, when Misty carried her through the door.</p><p> </p><p>She’d set Cordelia on the bed and crawled to be on top of her. Both of them were still in their swimsuits, skin warm from the day of sun exposure, and they spent a good several minutes rolling around and making out like teenagers. </p><p> </p><p>Misty reached around Cordelia’s back, ready to unhook the top of her bikini. She looked at her wife for permission, first, and the look of pure adoration — and absolute lust — in Misty’s eyes was enough for Cordelia. </p><p> </p><p>She allowed Misty to begin worshipping her body. Misty had kissed every inch of her skin in the beginning of what resulted in hours of lovemaking on the bed. Afterwards, they moved to the shower, and then the expansive bathtub, and Cordelia couldn’t get enough. </p><p> </p><p>Recalling the memory, Cordelia brings a finger up to touch one of the many tiny purple bruises on her neck. She’d been lying on top of Misty, chest to chest, in the bathtub. Misty had teased her about how they wouldn’t be able to go back out in public, tomorrow, and would have to be resigned to spending the rest of the trip in the villa. They were both giggling more than they had in months. Cordelia hasn’t a clue what time they finally made it back to the bed for a few more rounds before eventually falling asleep. </p><p> </p><p>She moves over, adjusting the sheets and comforter so she can slide comfortably next to Misty. She drapes herself over Misty’s bare chest, wrapping an arm around her torso and resting her cheek on Misty’s shoulder. Cordelia is so thrilled to see her wife’s blue eyes opening that she doesn’t even feel bad for waking her up.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” Misty croaks. She clears her throat, and Cordelia kisses her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty hums. “It is a good morning. How do you feel?” </p><p> </p><p>“Happy,” Cordelia answers honestly. She lifts her head, and awkwardly shifts her arm to prop herself up. “I love you. I missed you so much.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty folds her arm to hold Cordelia’s back. She gently scratches her fingernails against her skin, and Cordelia gets goosebumps.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, too. I missed every part of you.”</p><p> </p><p>. . . </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>december 29</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“It’s quiet in here.”</p><p> </p><p>Misty steps inside the room and walks over to meet Cordelia in the middle of what was once the nursery. She wraps her wife in a hug and tilts her chin down to kiss her lips. </p><p> </p><p>Cordelia leans in again to rest her cheek on Misty’s chest. She sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“I got it out." </p><p> </p><p>Misty eyes the box across the room, which she knows contains the disassembled crib they'd put into storage months ago.</p><p> </p><p>"I see that. Are you ready?"</p><p> </p><p>Cordelia stands upright. "I think so." She palms her belly, and looks between her wife's eyes and the bump under her breasts. "This baby deserves a bed."</p><p> </p><p>"I agree," Misty chuckles. She leans in to kiss Cordelia. "Come on. We'll build it together."</p>
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